Midnight Meat Train
by Lichtherz
Summary: Desmond works as a bartender and just tags along in his most favourite city when his life changes completely upon one certain night... Warning: Heavy violence here. Do not read when you have a sensitive stomach.


Midnight Meat Train

Good morning, good afternoon or whatever time you will read this.  
My native language is not English, so please excuse my poor grammar or use of words.

Pairing: -

Rating: M

Genre: Horror

Disclaimer: Assassins Creed belongs to Ubisoft.  
This is an Adaption of Clive Barker's books of blood from which one story I heard as an audiobook. I brooded over this idea and found, I should write it down.

_

Several years it has been ever since Desmond had arrived in New York City. He had escaped his homeland, a collection of farms somewhere in the middle of nowhere in South Dakota. His parents had been nothing more than farmers.  
But Desmond had strived for something different with the tender age of 16.

When he had arrived at the Port Authority bus station, he had been full of illusions of the 'big city' or 'Bastion of Passion' as some called it. He had thought to love the city and create something new and flashy.  
But every morning he saw the city, waking up from its deep slumber and seemingly like an old used whore, plucking the corpses out of her hair. And every night he would see her streets, where the people would flock to the red light district like lost sheep.

Now with 26 years he was deprived of the illusion. New York City was a city like any other. And he could not believe that he had been living here for 10 years. It didn't feel like ten years. But certainly he would not go back crying to his parents and become a farmer.  
He liked being independent.  
At least he had worked up his ass to be a local bartender. A good one at that too.

NYC was a city of violence and murder. This had never been any different all those years Desmond had been here. But now in the past months the city seemed to be flooded with blood. Not so much /on/ the streets, but below, in the shafts of the subways. 'Slaughter of the Subway', they called it.  
Alone in one week they had found three corpses in one train. What was strange about this was how the corpses were set up. The bodies hung upside down and resembled a cow or pig in a usual slaughterhouse. This was not a murder but seemed more like a butcher being interrupted in his work. The work looked so professional that the NYPD looked up the files of every criminal being somewhat connected to a butchery.

The observation and controls in the butcheries and factories were fruitless. It had also not been the first case of such a finding.  
Just at the day when Desmond had arrived at New York had already been an article about a similar case. But a singular one too. Victim had been a young woman named Lucy Stillman. She had looked young and healthy.  
Not only had she been prepared like 'ready-to-eat', but also any sort of jewellery had been taken off. Even earrings. And the clothes had been folded neatly onto a pile next to her. Her corpse had been shaven clean, even the eyebrows and eyelashes were gone. while she was hung upside down, the murderer had put a bucket underneath her, complete with a plastic bag inside, so the blood would be flowing into there from her wounds.  
Such perfectionism was gruesome. It was perverted.

And still no one knew who had done this terrible deed.

When Desmond read about the latest findings, he'd just felt disguisted about it. Disguisted enough to shove away the too-hard boiled eggs on toast he'd had for breakfast. This was just another proof of how bad New York was.  
He couldn't fancy to entertain himself over gruesome stuff like this, but the article in the newspaper was written clear and pristine. And yet so violent and morbid. This was what caught him up.

The bearded man next to him accidentally spilled his cup of coffee. "Shite...", he plopped a tissue on top of the dark liquid as it sought its way towards the edge of the counter. The tissue didn't do so much of stopping the liquid as to just become a muddy pulp on the table. "Shite.", the man said again. "Sorry man."  
"It's okay.", Desmond muttered.  
"I'll order ye a new one."  
"No, tha-"  
"Oy! Cuppa coffee!", the bearded man shouted over to the waitress that scratched cold fat from one of the grills.  
"Hm?", the girl hummed.  
"Deaf, ain't she?", the bearded man grinned towards Desmond in an apologetic way. Desmond then noticed that the man was missing some teeth. Then the bearded man's attention was drawn towards the table. "Ah, the newspaper...Bet they already found 'em."  
"What do you mean?"  
"/Them/. They already found the gangster who did all this mess but they're keepin' it a secret. They think we're too dumb for this crap..."

And while the bearded man went on about this matter, Desmond just stared at the man's features. Could there be... something violent and cruel behind this face? A murderer, perhaps? Could something be about the shape of his head? Is evil possibly visible like that?  
No... possibly not.

"…yea, possibly a cop.", the bearded man said when Desmond finally snapped back to reality. „Wanted ta be a hero. But became a freak. There."  
The bearded man put some money onto the counter and slipped from the seat.  
When he was gone, Desmond relaxed. He didn't quite like such situations. Perhaps this kind of people either. There had been something about this bearded and quite obese fellow that he just would not like.

It was nearly 6 pm, when Altair awoke. With the upcoming evening it had started to rain faintly and the air of Manhattan smelled as sweet as could be. After rolling about in his bed, he finally got up and ready for work.  
He turned on the radio just to hear some nice tune. He preferred to listen to old fashioned music. Jazz or even classic.

He walked around his appartment as he tried to wake up in both mind and body. Altair stared out the window, whilst 6 stories beneath him cramped both traffic and humans.  
By now they would all come home from work. Docile as sheep they trotted back to their husbands, wives, to their sins and playgrounds.  
Further down, people would be stuffed into the trains, blind for their surrounds and deaf for the noises they made.

When Altair thought about this, a smirk crept up his face. He was glad to not be one of them. To be above them. Well, of course he had to do his chores. He also had a job to do.  
But he was serving a higher purpose. He was following an old tradition, way older than the history of America itself.  
And while those people down there would never look at him twice, he was watching them with the eye of a predator. Picking out the young and strong ones he deemed to be fit for a meal.

Now, it was time to get going. Altair went over to the bathroom and under the shower. He looked down onto his body.  
Ten years it has now been since he had commenced the job he was doing now. He had used to be an unexperienced and scared teenager. But now he was not scared anymore. Never would be anymore. And his lean body moved with the precision of a feline predator.

In the meantime, Desmond went back to work. He didn't feel so good, but he wanted to work until 10, not go sooner. He was working bartender but luckily not alone, so he could actually take his time off every now and then. It came in handy at times like these.

Altair likewisely went to work. He was aware that his every step was being watched. It was inevitable due to the importance of his job. He was dressed in a casual hoodie, his tools safely packed in the bag that rested on his hip.  
His work would never be praised. Sometimes he wondered what faces he'd meet if he'd just tell people what he'd do. There were guys who'd bump into him occasionally. They would certainly not do so if they'd knew what was in his bag…

And if he ever happened to be caught by some enthusiastic police officer, he'd love to see his face when the authorities gave that wink from below that told them to release Altair again.  
Well, his secret was not to be known to anyone. He'd have to continue like that. Without any praise. At least he was free to do whatever.

He stepped down the stairs to the Avenue-of-the-Americas line and was engulfed in the smell of the upper tunnels. The smell of a breath that millions of people had exhaled and mixed with the breath of much older entities whose voices were as soft as clay.

Altair went around the station to find anything worth stalking. The prey he saw today was not the good kind. Even after one hour of waiting. Eventually, the visitors from the nearby theatre would come. All intellectual shitheads. Most people nowadays just let themselves go. Fat over fat and white slobbery skin.  
This was nothing Altair wanted. He preferred sportlers, but those often defended themselves.  
He'd remember two black ‚bucks' he'd gotten the other year. Possibly father and son. And they had defended themselves with knives which had earned Altair a stay of six weeks in a hospital. Dammnit…

It was just half past ten when the first theatre guests arrived, but still there was nothing good among them.

By eleven, Desmond still meant to pull through. His colleagues told him to go home. He'd look like shit. Ten minutes past, he went for real. Because when ever does your boss tell you to just go home?  
His eyes were burning as he took off the obligatory apron and washed his hands. He rubbed his eyes until colours were dancing behind his eyelids. Was there a fever approaching?  
Desmond hated being sick, even if that meant a chance of getting more time off work.

With heavy steps he made his way to the subway. The cold and wet air outside trickled on his skin but didn't do anything to better his condition. At 34th street, he walked down the stairs to get the Express to Far Rockaway. In one hour he'd be home.

Neither Desmond nor Altair knew what had happened in the meantime.  
The police had fetched a crazy man on corner 96th street, broadway who they believed to be the murderer of the recent cases.  
The man had threatened a lady with a hammer and saw and had claimed to cut her into two pieces in the name of ‚Jehova'.  
But it was also not like the woman could not have helped herself. No one in the train had reacted, not even the two navy seals who happened to be there. So the woman just lifted her knee into the poor man's balls and had then crashed his lower jaw and cheekbone with the hammer.

It turned out to be a distraction from Altair.  
The man turned out to be a pensionated florist living in the Bronx. The man had appeared often for being crude and was pretty much known to the police officers.

It was quarter before midnight when Desmond boarded his train. Except for him two more passengers. One black middle ages woman in a red coat, then another white acne-faced teen with drug dilated eyes who stared at some poster.  
Desmond just sat in the first car and from the rhythmic wavering from the train his eyes fell shut…  
It was a long and boring ride.  
Desmond never saw how the lights in the other cabin flickered and then went out nor did he see Altair's face as he looked for more meat.

On 14th street, the black woman departed, no one stepped in. Desmond opened his eyes shortly to see the empty station and then closed them again.  
Desmond was drifting between waking and sleeping, unsure where to stay. Dreams took shape, yet would not stay. It was a nice and warm feeling.. finally getting some rest.

Perhaps, Desmond had heard how the doors from the first cabin had been opened. Perhaps he had heard the steps of Altair, as the male had stepped past him. And maybe he would have heard how Altair had taken care of the drug infused teen. But the promise of slumber was just too good to ignore.

For some reasons, his dreams circled around the kitchen of his mother, how she'd cut vegetables…  
She would smile at his younger self as she worked through the carrots. Zig, zig, zig…

With one moment, Desmond's eyes snapped open. His cabin was empty, the teen was gone!  
And he could not remember for the hell of it that the train would have stopped at Fourth street west.  
He tried to get up and almost fell over. The train was wavering now even more and the train driver must have had an impressive speed on. Possibly he just wanted to go home to the warm bed of his wife as well. Now the tempo even increased more and more.

Desmond concluded that no one and nothing had woken him up. And that however long he had been out, now the train had long since been past Far Rockaway and now heading for a depot to stay for the night. Also, there was now a blind drawn onto the door between the cabins. When had that been there? Desmond cursed inwardly.  
He had no choice. Possibly it would be best to just go and ask the driver where they were going. But at a time like this he would get anything but a clear answer. Possibly even more curse words and stuff…  
Then the train slowed down soon.

The dirty light of West Fourth Street – Washington Square came into view. So he had not missed out any of the train stations. But where had the teen gone? Possibly switched to another cabin even when it was not really allowed?  
Ah, to hell with it, Desmond thought.  
The doors closed and no one had gotten into the train.

The promise of further sleep tempted Desmond, but thanks to the feel of being lost and missing out of something had adrenaline pumping into his system, making him agile and awake. Then, the sound of ripping tissue from the other cabin drew his attention towards there.  
He carefully got up, the train gaining speed as he did so. More fabric was torn. Was there someone being raped? Desmond was curious, maybe not a good habit, he thought. But the way he tried to get a glimpse past the blind before the door's window made him blind for the blood trails he stepped into.

That was until he slipped and fell to the ground. His belly almost registered the blood sooner than his brain and his last meal already fought its way back up to his mouth. He gagged and then frantically breathed in the old air from the train. Blood, said his brain finally.  
Blood.  
And he had to get up and go check for the other cart. He had to know what was going on. He had to know…!

He found a small hole in the fabric of the curtain that hung behind the door to the other cart. He quickly pressed his eye against the glass, but his brain just refused what his eye recognised. It was… absurd!  
Light flickered before his eyes, so he no longer had to see the terrible things that happened beyond the curtain. And finally he was engulfed with unconsciousness.

He was still unconscious when the train reached Jay Street – Metrotech. And he was deaf to the announcement of the driver that all passengers who wanted to go further had to take another train from there on. And if he'd had heard the warning, he would have doubted it. There was no train where Jay Street was the end station. This line went over the Aqueduct racetrack, over Kennedy Airport until Mott Avenue. He might have asked what sort of train this was.

The truth was… he already knew what it was. The truth of this train was lying beyond the door with the curtain, wore a bloodied chainmail apron and smiled with a face that resembled his own.

This. Was Midnight Meat Train.

There was no measure for time when Desmond regained his consciousness. When his eyes would flutter open. He was pressed against the wall, under some seats and shielded from view. Fate muste have rolled him there. It was on his side, really. He thought about the creep that was waiting in the next cabin. The driver must have been dead by now as well for all he knew.  
Where were they going now anyway? Perhaps some unknown tunnel?  
And his own death was lieing over there as well.  
He felt cramped up in the small space he was hidden in and his head hurt.

Slowly, the strength and feel for his own body returned to him. And with that he urge to throw up. This was no random murder over there. He was in a terrible situation. This monster that gutted and de-haired its victims and hung them upside down like this… How long would it take until it would come through that door and find him?  
It didn't help the situation that the guy shared the same facial features. Almost, as if they were twins, separated upon birth.  
Desmond decided to ignore that fact for now.

A sound shuffled behind the door and Desmond's instincts took over. He rolled into a ball and tried his best to merge with his surroundings. Finally he scrunched his eyes shut like a child that was scared in the night.  
Then the door glided open.  
A waft of air moved in. Air that Desmond had never smelled before. Ancient air…

Steps moved closer and Desmond wondered if the killer was bending over soon, finding the back of him and cutting him open, peeling him from his hideout like you would peel a banana. Desmond shivered slightly. The steps were so close to his head!  
They lingered for a while and Desmond could heard the breath of the other male.  
But nothing happened. The steps wandered off again.  
Desmond released a breath he had not known he'd hold in.

Altair was almost disappointed. The sleeping guy must have gotten out at Jay Street. He would have liked to take another victim with him this night. Just so that he'd have to do /something/ on their way down. But no, he was gone.  
He tried to tell himself that the guy had looked sick anyway. Maybe a jewish accountant. Really no good quality meat.  
The rest of the way he would spend in the cockpit of the driver.

My god, Desmond thought. He'll be killing the driver /now/.  
The door slid open and Desmond could hear the sharp tone of the killer.  
"Hey Mal."  
"Hey there."  
They…they knew each other!  
"Are you done yet?"  
"Yep."

Desmond was outraged at the simplicity of this conversation. ‚Done yet?'? This was even worse than he thought. He would not hear the next words as the train was coming through a trail that was making alot of noise.  
Now he /had/ to see.  
He carefully uncoiled and looked over his shoulder. He could only see the legs of the killer and the lower part of the cockpit. Damnit!  
If only he could see something else that was important. He could not go to the police with the sentence like ‚Oh, the murderer of the trains? He looks like me but it is not me, mind you'.

He heard laughter coming from the front and tried to evulate his chances. Calculation between life and death. Should he remain hidden where the killer would sooner or later find him and take him out? Or should he get up and face him like a man… and then get chopped?  
Desmond was surprised at his own courage as he slowly peeled himself from his hideout and slowly got up and towards the front. He moved for the door and had the handle firmly in his grasp as he took one last breath.

The killer must be heard him. Or at least smell the rotten air from the shaft the train was riding through.  
But none of this happened. Almost like a snake, Desmond slithered through the door. His valiance made him uncareful. The door had not slid shut like it should have and the wavering made it slide further open.

Altair looked up and down at the door in a frown.  
"What's going on there, novice?", the driver asked with a sharp tone.  
"…Just didn't close the door shut.", Altair replied with a husky voice in which remained some doubt.

Desmond was pressed against the wall between the cabins as the steps came closer. He felt the sudden urge of wanting to visit the toilet, but then the door was slapped shut and the steps moved away again.

Now Desmond was in the cabin with the dead bodies. He hated it here. The noise of the straps as they moaned underneath the weight, the scent of just-emptied bowels and the feeling of still-warm and sticky blood beneath his fingers.  
But the urge of vomiting would not come this time. In fact all he felt was disguist for the killer… and a sense of curiosity for the victims, even as he himself was surrounded by death down here.  
He looked at the victim closest to him.

It was the young teen. The body of the teen swayed back and forth in the rhythm of the train, just like the other three victims. Basically everything upon the teen was swaying as well in some sort of morbid dance. From the arms whose shoulders were dislocated to hang more in order to the soft appendage that was resting upon a hairless lower belly. There were precise cuts in the neck region where the blood was still steadily oozing out.  
Desmond had to admit that there was some sort of elegance to the ‚work' that the killer had left behind.

Furthermore, there were the corpses of two young white women and one black man. Desmond looked at their faces. The black one was possibly Puerto Rican. One of the girls would have been a beauty… but the hair was completely gone. The corpses looked utterly bleak.  
He slowly rose from his cowering stance into a standing position as one of the girls turned around their axis, showing him her back.  
Desmond was not prepared for something like this! Her back was completely split open, from the neck to the bum and the flesh peeled to the sides to display the wet-glittering spine.  
This was the epitome of the killers craftmanship!

Madness was tickling at the base of Desmond's skull. Insanity promised a numbing feeling and the ignorance of what was presented to him. His body started to shake and a cry dwelled up in his chest. But a cry would have meant that he'd look the same soon enough…  
"…F..fuck this.", he finally mumbled.

He abandoned the wall he had been leaning on and stalked between the dangling corpses. Upon this he became aware of the neatly folded piles of clothes by the seats. The slowly drying bile beneath his shoes was sticky and in the buckets with blood he could see trails of sand or dust swirling. Then his gaze wandered towards the next cabin before him.  
He'd just have to get to the next cabin, then…

…Then the lights went out. And the train was wavering stronger again and made him fall. Instinctively he grabbed for something to hold onto and his fingers felt the lukewarm body next to him, the edge of where the meat was cut open, his cheek somewhat pressed against the thigh of one of the girls. Now it was impossible to hold back the scream that came from his throat. And while he screamed, the lights flickered on again and he could hear the rushing steps of the killer coming near after his scream had died down.

No, Desmond would not run anymore. Not now. Now the time had come for a showdown. He felt blood on his cheek where he had touched the woman's leg and it almost itched him. He needed a weapon, that was sure too. His gaze wandered and on the pile of the clothes of the Puerto Rican he found a knife as he heard the door rattling. He grabbed the knife and it felt good in his hands.  
The door slid open and the killer looked into the cabin. Desmond was once again confrontated with the man that resembled himself so much. Well, now that he saw him neared, he could see that the features were sharper and the hair was a tad lighter. More of a dirty blonde really than his own dark brown hair.

Altair in the meantime could not explain to himself how he had not seen this passenger earlier. How could he had slipped his attention? Was he getting weak again? He cursed inwardly because this meant that now he had to rush, they were two or three miles from their destination after all. He had to take care that the guy had to be killed and hanging from the straps before they reached their destination. For a brief moment he was also somehow bothered by what this guy looked like. It felt like looking at a mirror… then again not. Altair frowned.  
Then he stepped into the cabin.

"You have slept.", Altair said – almost friendly. „Saw you. You should have gotten out while you had the chance. Bet you thought you could have kept hiding before me."  
Desmond just glared at Altair in silence.  
Altair gripped the cleaver in his hand. It was bloodied, just like his chainmail apron, his saw and his hammer. „How things are as of now… I'll have to remove you."  
Desmond raised his knife which looked miserably and tiny compared to the big cleaver of the killer. „Fuck this.", he groaned.

So the youngster tried to defend himself. Altair just grinned. „You shouldn't have seen this. This is nothing for the likes of you. It's a secret."  
Ah, so he was one of /those/ guys, Desmond thought. „Fuck this.", he whispered, again.  
Altair frowned. He didn't quite like how the younger male seemed to ignore his work. „We all have to die one day. Though…you can be happy. You will not be burnt like most of them. You will be fodder. For the city fathers."  
Desmond just replied with a smirk.  
"I see how it is…"

Altair stroke the cleaver down Desmond, who just dodged the attack, the cleaver barely slicing his sleeve and coat. The blade split through the thigh of the Puerto Rican, revealing its nature of being juicy and tender meat, just like a fine sirloin steak.  
Desmond swished his knife towards Altairs neck and would have broken through if Altair had not abandoned the meat cleaver that had been stuck in the fresh meat.

Altair cursed under his breath. The young guy before him was better than he had thought. But he was not completely defeated. He unsheathed another, hidden blade from a strap around his wrist and grinned at Desmond.  
Desmond however gritted his teeth and lunged for another attack, when the train soon came to a hold, the dead bodies moving along. The wheels screeched on the rails.

Where would they come now? An underground butchery with trophies?, Desmond wondered. He had almost lost his stance and fell right into the blade of the butcher.  
Both didn't do anything for what felt like hours.  
Then Desmond stepped forward, his blade directed at the killer. Desmonds inexperienced blade however clashed against the hidden blade and not once but a few times. It seemed that both were somewhat on the same level. Altair was impressed that without any schooling, Desmond was able to fight like this.

"You better quit your battle soon now and take a seat.", the driver said over the loudspeakers within the train. „We're there."  
And as to emphasize this, the lights went out and the train was wrapped in complete darkness.

"Well… it seems we have to call it a tie.", Altair said. „You better put that blade away when /they/ come. What's your name?"

"Fine, then I call you ‚asshole'. I am Altair.", and Altair sheathed his blade again, aware that the other guy could possibly kill him effortlessly.  
But instead… the young male also reluctantly put his knife away. „Desmond."

The doors opened upon a hiss and an almost acidic air came in. Desmond reflexively slapped a hand before his mouth and nose.  
"This is old air.", Altair said with a soft voice. „You will get used to it. However, do not freak out on me now when /they/ enter the train. Try to stay calm."  
"Who are /they/?"

From outside, a low whisper – almost a chant – came neared along with the shuffle of feet and maybe other things. Desmond couldn't help but tense. Altair actually pulled him towards the back. Now, the fighting was over. There was nothing they could do.  
At the edge of the door appeared a small and fragile hand. It was almost translucent, so frail it appeared.  
An old person beyond any normal age entered the train. Desmond had never been prepared for any of this. He had expected anything. A butchery, maybe a flock of wild wolves, cannibals, but never /this/.

More elderly people entered the train. Each of them with skin hanging low down their bodies, shining bald heads, no hair at all, and the low hanging skin could not be deciphered anymore. Whatever gender there had been, it had shriveled away. Most of these creatures were without clothes and those with clothes… even more creepy!  
Because said clothing consisted of human skin. Possibly relatively ‚fresh' human skin. From any part of body it was crudely draped around the bodies of the elderly people.

The old people directly go for the meat that is hanging still on the straps of the train, petting is lustfully, mouth watering and eye rolling.  
One of them spotted Desmond and Altair.  
"You?"  
"Good evening.", Altair bowed courtly.  
The voice of the old man who had spotted them was very soft and well articulated. It must have been a fine gentleman in younger days.

"He must have slipped my attention. I am very sorry about that, Sir. But hear this, I fought him for the last few minutes and I do think we have a reinforcement on our side. He will be my novice.", Altair proposed and bowed again slightly.  
The old man still looked at Desmond with slight doubt. Then a grin appears which revealed the teeth that are filed into pointy needles.  
"Two meat hunters, I see…"

Desmond made a disgusted face when the old man grabbed into the skin of one of the corpses and carressed it as well. „Without food we cannot live.", the old man explained to Desmond. „We are disgusted no less than you. But we have to eat this meat. Or we die. God knows, I hate this flavour."  
But still, the man's mouth was surely watering and he bit into the glistening wet meat.

"What are they?", Desmond asked Altair when they had gotten off the train. „Are they the results of misshappened experiments?"  
Altair laughed. A short and humourless laughter. „No… they are the city fathers, city mothers, their daughters and sons. These are the very builder, the law makers… They created this city."  
"New York? The bastion of passion?"  
"Before you were born, before any life was born…"

The creatures had hung off the corpses and now made their way out of the train with them as trophies. On their way they break the flesh apart and devour it.  
"You will have to work alongside us now. You will also kill them and bring food for the city fathers.", Altair now said with sharp eyes. „For those that are older than the city fathers. For those born before they even considered a city. When America was woodland and desert."

Altair walked with Desmond towards a certain place. The crowd of elderly people – the city fathers – split like the red sea before them.  
All the while Desmond thought about what was above this horror. The people above, lawyers, politicians, possibly knew about this secret and supported the feeding of these creatures. Desmond felt it in his bones.  
And even though Altair was the killer and about 10 minutes ago he just wanted to see him dead he now was glad to not be alone down here.

And there he was. The very first American that existed even before the Indians were there. Empty eye sockets that seemed to be ogling at him, the movements of the skeleton audibly in sighing and grunting and rustling. Desmond just looked at this /thing/ and dropped to his knees.  
If he had been able to see it all, his heart would have simply collapsed.  
It was a giant with no limbs and no head. It took more of a resemblance to a fish swarm instead to a human.

Everything within Desmond was crying except for his eyes when he went back to the train with Altair. Some of the elders were still by the train.  
"Will you serve us?", the one elder asked.  
Desmond didn't answer. And Altair could see that Desmond looked like shit after having seen the ‚big one'. Damn. Altair slightly elbowed Desmond to get him back here. He could not guarantee for what the elder was doing to him.  
"Y-yes. I will…", Desmond softly said.  
The elder nodded. „Serve us.", and then he went into the darkness, effectively leaving the two behind.

Altair sighed and relaxed. „Come. …Desmond was it? Come, let's go home.", he gently helped Desmond back into the cabin of the train. They sat in the cabin behind the driver and the driver had his door open.  
"Let's go home, Malik.", Altair said. Then he turned to Desmond. „You're lucky. Knowing the elders, he could have ripped out your tongue and eaten it. I have seen such things. Guys who were not tough enough but supposed to serve them. I could not have saved you before that."  
And Desmond fell unconscious again. He was so done with the world. The fever from the beginning had not helped at all.

When he awoke again, the driver hovered over him. It was an Arabian guy with smooth tanned skin, black short hair and the eyes of an owl. „You have a big task ahead, boy. They really like you. So does Altair, this does not happen often. You have to learn alot until tomorrow night though."

They were in a cleaning station. The station itself was also very clean and probably the wet dream of any stationmaster. No graffiti decorating the walls, not a speck of dust, nothing but pristine white tile walls and floor.  
A cleaning team cleaned the train from all the blood and other stuff that had been lying around.  
"I want to introduce to you Altair's new novice! Desmond!", Malik announced to the cleaners who looked up and nodded.  
Desmond could swear he saw something like respect in their eyes. He actually liked that.

"Altair is waiting outside.", Malik said and led Desmond out of the Station and up.  
The sun had rosen and pink puffy clouds were by the horizon. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, Desmond thought.  
The streets of New York were practically empty.  
"Hey Desmond.", Altair smiled.


End file.
